


and now i just sit in silence

by mishcollin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fallen Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/pseuds/mishcollin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean dies, and Castiel goes to drastic measures to remedy this situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and now i just sit in silence

In retrospect, Castiel wonders if there were foretelling shadows that he’d missed; warnings in the corners of his eyes, some sort of shifting under his skin that he’d dismissed as clothes brushing dry skin. Some sort of foreshadowing, foreboding, a presage to tragedy that his dull mortal eyes had skimmed.

Two weeks back, they’d been looking at a case, a vengeful spirit who in life had been executed for a long string of crimes.

“What are the charges?” Castiel had asked.

“Looks like the first one on here is vehicular manslaughter,” Dean had replied in a contemplative voice, and had read the rest of the list. No cloud had bruised the sun, no angel of death had whispered in Castiel’s ear a warning or a prophecy.

A week later, they’d been driving when a pick-up with a flapping tarp had careened into the Impala’s lane. Dean had yelped in surprise and slammed on the brakes, sending him and Castiel catapulting forward in their seats as the pick-up straightened its course and roared away.

“That was close,” Dean said, his breath coming in quick and shallow skips. Castiel had nodded, and there had been no hint of anything odd, anything sinister.

 _How could I have known?_ Castiel thinks as he cups his face in his hands and shakes, racking all over like he’s trying to shed his skin. There had been no divine sign, no faded tarot card with a reaper and its claws outstretched, no God. Just a drive to the store, a semi into the side of the Impala, and Dean dead on impact. 

Something about the method of death makes Castiel sick to his stomach. Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man, the most important human being in existence and the saver of worlds, had been killed in the receiving end of a drunk driving accident. It somehow seems like a horrible cosmic joke that won’t end.

He’s waiting outside the hospital morgue and he abhors the cloying pristine tang of the hospital in his nose, burning and acid-sharp. A toxin under a guileless guise.

Sam comes out of the morgue a half an hour later. His face is puffy and strands of his hair are stringy and crusted with tears. The hollows of his cheeks glisten with the wet tracks.

“Um, your turn, Cas,” Sam says in a cracked, dry voice and he can’t look Castiel in the eye.

Castiel feels his stomach lurch and wonders how it feels to throw up.

He walks on unsteady wooden legs into the morgue and his knees buckle a bit when he sees Dean stretched out on the table, his visage more peaceful and empty than it had ever been in life. He looks the same, a bit paler, and he’s still dinged up from the accident badly. His hair is matted down and crusted with blood and halted bruises flower on his cheeks, on his lip.

Castiel reaches out and tenderly spreads his fingers over Dean’s heart. He can’t imagine how Dean’s chest is an empty hollow thing without all of Dean’s passion and wildness and stubbornness and love to light it like some sort of pyre. It’s strange how everything that made Dean _Dean_ has fled his body, leaving a broken shell. 

Castiel remembers the human myth of placing an ear to a shell and hearing the ocean. Dean had had oceans inside him, mountains, stars. They’d guttered out like exhausted candles, and Castiel finds himself bowing his head and sobbing violently, without control or a desire to stop. It feels like a dam in his chest is flooding and breaking and pouring out of him, a vicious maelstrom of self-hatred and grief and loss and emptiness and fear and love because goddammit, Castiel had loved Dean with every fiber in his fucking being, angelic or not. He had stopped wondering and agonizing over how it happened, how he’d come to orbit his entire existence around this ridiculous and beautiful human being, but it feels like his galaxy is out of balance now, like the stars have tipped sideways somehow.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” is all Castiel can find in him to say. “I’m so sorry.”

It had been his job—his most important job—to watch over Dean, to protect him, to look out for him. Castiel had been stripped from his wings, from his grace, from his power, and Dean had died.

“It’s like I had one job,” Castiel hears himself saying, as though down a long tunnel. “And I failed. I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

He wonders if the more he says it, the less he’ll feel. The less he’ll resent every human being who isn’t Dean Winchester, as he knows he will for the rest of his pointless mortal existence.

Castiel dips his head and places a kiss to Dean’s forehead, a farewell and a benediction, and leaves to find Sam.

—-

Sam and Castiel return after hours and sneak Dean’s body out of the hospital—“salt and burn,” Sam tells Castiel with a terrifying emptiness in his eyes—and there’s something that feels macabre and wrong about taking Dean home as a corpse in the backseat of a car that isn’t his.

Sam has to stop the car for Castiel to throw up twice.

When he isn’t curled up and trying to fight nausea, Castiel thinks of a life without Dean in it. Just him and Sam, on the road, traveling with the ghost of a man they both loved.

He thinks of waking up every day to a world without Dean Winchester in it, and realizes he can’t. Somehow, he can’t. He won’t.

They reach the bunker and carry Dean toward the door. Halfway between the car and the door, Sam drops his half of Dean’s load and takes off running down the gravel road. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even halt in his long and desperate stride.

“ _Sam!_ ” Castiel yells after him, but Sam’s long gone. “Please don’t make me do this alone,” he adds to himself with something like a whimper.

Castiel doesn’t feel like he has control over his limbs as he reaches for the salt and gasoline Sam had moved into the trunk, goes for the lighter in his pocket, stares down at Dean. Shakes the salt over him, stripes the gasoline on him in ribbons. Flicks seven tries on the lighter and watches how his hand shakes so badly that the flame is a wobbling blur. He lowers his hand to drop the flame but his hand is an iron vice.

_I can’t, I can’t, I can’t._

I won’t.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel whispers.

Sam had left the keys discarded on the gravel sidewalk. Castiel scoops them up and heads into the bunker. Searches for supplies in the archive, specific ingredients, and goes back outside. Looks down at Dean, murmurs another unanswered apology. Starts the car, like Dean had taught him how.

He doesn’t drive far, but the road seems like an expanse into eternity, a lonely boulevard to hell. He can feel the shadow of Dean sitting shotgun, laughing and blasting annoying music and teaching Castiel how to drive in the most obnoxious way possible. Everything feels like it’s ripping apart in Castiel, like it’s shattering around him.

He stops the car at the first crossroads and turns it off before gathering the ingredients—a charred rabbit’s bone, graveyard dirt, a small picture of him Dean had taken for his fake Homeland Security badge—and tucking them into one of the many small artifact-holding boxes Sam and Dean had lined up on their shelves.

It doesn’t take long to bury them in the center of the road, and even less time for a demon to show up.

“Oh, Castiel,” a purring, vindictive voice from behind him says. “I can’t express how very pleased I am to see you.”

Castiel whirls and glares; the demon laughs at the swollen circles under Castiel’s eyes. Laughs at his desperation and his misery.

“Oh, how the mighty fall,” the demon croons, bouncing a step forward. “And for Dean Winchester, no less.”

“You know what I’ve come for,” Castiel says in nearly a growl. “Are you here to tease me or make a deal?”

“Oh, but I’d like to hear you say it out loud. Gets my insides all tingly.”

“My soul for Dean’s life,” Castiel says with slow precision, to indulge her. The demon beams, and Castiel wonders if it’s mere coincidence that she had picked a girl with sandy brown hair, freckles, and bright green eyes. Most likely not.

“Well, this is just a treat,” the demon says in a syrupy voice as her eyes flick crimson red. “Heaven’s most wanted waltzing right into the hands of hell. I couldn’t achieve that sort of poetry even if I tried.”

“Obviously,” Castiel says flatly, and the demon curls her lip.

“Watch yourself, _Cas_. I’ve got Dean’s life on a silver platter and you don’t. That kind of puts me in a bit of a winning position, wouldn’t you say?”

Castiel feels his lips twitch furiously but he says nothing. She is right, after all.

“So here you are,” the demon muses, beginning to circle around Castiel almost predatorily.

“Here I am,” Castiel agrees. “A fallen angel for you to torture for the rest of eternity for his injustices to your species. Almost too good to pass up, is it not?”

The demon laughs, loudly and cruelly. “My goodness, Cas, you’re even more starved for Dean than I thought you were.”

“Don’t call me Cas,” Castiel says before he can stop himself, and the demon’s eyes brighten with malicious glee.

“Oh yes, that’s _right_. That’s his little pet name for you, isn’t it? That’s horribly adorable.” She pauses. “Or, was his pet name for you, I guess.”

Castiel grinds his teeth. “Are you going to deal or not?”

“Oh, I’ll deal,” the demon promises, her eyes flaring red again. “But I’m changing the game a little bit.”

“Ten years,” Castiel says, “that’s the standard, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh, my dear baby Cas,” the demon replies, “you are anything but the standard.”

Castiel sucks in a deep and shaking breath. “Five years.”

“Hmmm…no.”

“One year.”

“No deal.”

“Six months,” Castiel bites out. “It’s a fair deal. Take it.”

“Dropping the box on that one, Howie, and still saying _no deal_.”

Castiel can feel dread trickling through his veins. Crystallizing like ice in his bones.

“You get twelve hours,” the demon says, raising her eyebrows. “Just like the Winchesters’ good old Johnny boy.”

“That’s ludicrous,” Castiel protests, taking an aggressive step toward her. “A month, at least.”

“A half a day. That’s my only offer. Your soul is _valuable_ , Cas, it’s in demand. It’s hot on the market. So you get twelve whole hours. Either that or the flies can start gathering on Dean’s corpse.”

Castiel closes his eyes. He knows his answer. Has always known his answer.

“Fine,” he whispers, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. “Twelve hours, my soul, Dean’s life. That’s the deal.”

“That’s a good boy,” the demon says in a sugary warm voice, much closer than before, and Castiel keeps his eyes shut still. “Mm, it’s a good thing you’re hot.”

She kisses him, fleshy and wet and sulfurous and entirely unpleasant.

Castiel opens his eyes and flinches a bit when he sees her true gruesome face, a twisted mass of bone and decaying skin and empty eyes.

“Ah, the effects are already kicking in, are they?” the demon says with a wide, grotesque smile. “I’ll see you in hell, Cas.” And she disintegrates into a pillar of black smoke.

—-

Castiel drives home with his heartbeat in his mouth and his hands clammy and slipping on the wheel. He doesn’t think about the fact that in less than a day, he’ll be suffering in the pit for all eternity. He thinks about Dean, and Sam, and only them.

Castiel stops the car in front of the bunker ten minutes later and his heart leaps into his throat when he realizes Dean’s no longer lying on the gravel road outside.

He climbs out of the car, slips into the bunker, and is promptly slammed against the door closed behind him, fists balled in his shirt and pinching his skin.

“What did you do?” Dean yells, his eyes wild and panicked and furious. “ _What the fuck did you do?_ ”

Castiel says nothing, just stares at Dean and drinks in his anger, his vitality, the life flickering in electric storms across his face.

“Did you sell your soul? _Did you sell your fucking soul?_ ” Dean’s voice rings in Castiel’s ears painfully, it’s so loud, and Dean slams Castiel back into the door. “ _Did you?_ ”

Castiel says nothing, just gently places his hands on Dean’s taut wrists, and Dean curses in a broken sort of way.

“I didn’t ask—” Dean begins. “I _never_ wanted you to—god _dammit_ , Cas!” He’s back to yelling again. “Is everyone in this fucking family gonna to go to hell for me? Put themselves in the line of fire for _nothing_? You fucking selfish sonofabitch! Why the fuck couldn’t you let me stay dead, Cas, Jesus Christ, Jesus…”

Sam, his eyes still wide and watery and bloodshot and watching the altercation, quietly leaves the room to give them some privacy.

Castiel traces every one of Dean’s features with his eyes, the high flush in his cheeks, his faded freckles, his angry mouth, his flecked green eyes. Glassed with tears, Castiel realizes.

Yes, Castiel thinks. This is right. This is just. This is worth it, worth everything.

“How long did they give you,” Dean says in a low mutter, so quietly that Castiel almost misses it. Dean won’t look at him now; his fingers are still twisted in Castiel’s shirt, his gaze fastened to a button on the worn plaid.

Castiel clears his throat and says, even more softly, “Twelve hours.”

Dean chokes out a low whimpering noise and bows his head, fingers hooking more tightly into Castiel’s skin.

“How dare you,” he’s whispering over and over again. “How dare you do that to me.”

“I was trying to save you,” Castiel says, wishing desperately that Dean would look him in the eye. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you were being fucking selfish. How am I supposed to live with this, Cas? How the _fuck_ am I supposed to live with this?” His eyes are big and terrified and vulnerable when he finally looks up to Castiel. “Why, _why_ would you do something like this?”

“I couldn’t live while you were dead,” Castiel says, and this breaks something in Dean.

“And who says I can live without you?” Dean shouts, furious all over again as he slams Castiel with a jarring thud into the metal door, and his raw voice rings in the silence of the bunker, in the spaces of silence in Castiel’s head.

Dean is still blinking, wide and shocked and scared, because he hadn’t meant to say it, and Castiel hadn’t been expecting it. He too is surprised by Dean’s loyalty to him, his devotion, his…

“Cas,” Dean says; he’s switched course and is almost crying again. “Cas, there is no _you_ in this situation. There are no more angels, no fucking saving grace, no one to grip you tight and raise you from perdition or whatever the fuck it was. You’re _stuck_ down there for eternity, and I—I—” His voice trembles precariously and splinters off into a rapid, shaky breath.

“I deserve hell, Dean,” Castiel says gently, manacling Dean’s wrists lightly with his fingers. “I deserve worse. You deserve to live. You can look after Sam, meet a girl, settle down, have a family, die old. You have all that ahead of you.”

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me, Cas—”

“I was headed to hell anyway,” Castiel adds with a shrug that is falsely nonchalant. “I just sped up the trip.”

A sob cracks from Dean’s chest as he ducks his head, and Castiel is shocked to hear the noise.

“You fucking asshole,” Dean whispers. “How could you do this to me? Why would you do this to me?”

“I did it for you, Dean,” Castiel says, “I did everything for you.”

He doesn’t know how it happens but Dean is kissing him and shoving him violently into the door, wild and furious and desperate and incredibly broken, a clash of teeth and fire and bite, and Castiel is frozen for a few minutes in shock before he tentatively reciprocates, only to have Dean break contact with him and back up, eyes wide and still tear-filled.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry,” Dean says. “Jesus, I’m sorry, Cas.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I didn’t—I don’t want to ruin—”

“You’re not ruining anything. Besides,” Castiel quips, “this is my last night on earth, remember?”

Dean’s eyes widen a fraction and his breath hitches. “You’re not saying—I mean, you don’t want to…”

“No,” Castiel says, “not that, not tonight. Just…” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Stay with me, please.”

Dean, shaking, nods and replies, “Yeah, Cas, of course. Of course I will.”

Castiel says goodbye to Sam, who’s crying again and is gripping onto Castiel tight in a bone-crushing grip and is saying, _thank you, thank you, Cas, I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry_ before Dean leads Castiel back to his room, his fingers trembling on Castiel’s wrist.

“I don’t want to sleep,” Castiel whispers as they lay down together, clinging onto each other like two drowning men. “Don’t let me fall asleep.”

“You’re not gonna fall asleep,” Dean murmurs, and in a strange moment of tenderness runs his fingers soothingly through Castiel’s hair. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“About everything.”

Castiel tells Dean stories, stories from the creation of the stars and suns and oceans (“The oceans were always my favorite; there was something about them that seemed both eternal and ephemeral, and even as an angel I could taste the salt on the wind.”), about Eden and the tower of Babel (“You should’ve smelled that particular creation.”) and Sodom and Gomorrah. He talks about his brothers and sisters (“I miss Anna and Balthazar, and Inias and Gabriel too. I sometimes miss Lucifer, if that isn’t a horrible and sinful thing. I miss them so _much_ , Dean. Sometimes I can still hear them, echoes in my head.”) He talks about saving Dean’s soul from hell, a beacon in the bloody dark (“I knew from that moment on, Dean, that everything was going to change, everything.”) and they quietly discuss their first meeting and everything that had happened after.

Dean talks too, and kisses Castiel a few times with a temerity that’s almost endearing and a desperation that’s almost frightening. Dean talks about hunts with Sam as a kid (“A chupacabra once put Sammy in the hospital while my dad was hunting a Crocotta in San Diego, and I bawled like a fucking baby for five hours.”), about his mom (“She believed in angels, you know that? She always said they were watching over me; she used to tuck me in with those exact words and a verse from ‘Hey Jude.’”), about his dad (“He was a good guy, you know? We had our disagreements but…like, one time he took Sammy and me out to the batting cages and showed us how to use a baseball mitt. Sam probably doesn’t remember.”), and more about Sam. About Cas, too, and Bobby.

Castiel can feel his heartbeats ticking down, his breath slowing as if in preparation as the hours drag on. He knows that a reaper hangs just in sight, rubbing its cold, clammy hands, but somehow he feels secure and invincible with Dean’s arms twisted around him.

“Cas?” Dean asks what feels like only moments later, his voice shaking badly. “It’s…it’s been twelve hours.”

Castiel nods, and wonders how his past self would take it if he had known this would be his demise, at the end of all things.

“I…I just want you to know,” Dean says, voice breaking, and Castiel replies, softly, “I know. Me too, Dean.”

Dean gives a jerky nod, inhales, and pulls Castiel closer to him, his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder.

Distantly, Castiel hears the cry of a hound.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Twenty One Pilots' "Car Radio."


End file.
